


right in front of my eyes

by interim



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:20:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interim/pseuds/interim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When retelling the story, she would always begin it with: "I watched the Treasury Secretary fall in love with his wife."<br/>At the time, it didn't always seem like a story that would be worth retelling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	right in front of my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> this story is dedicated to iaintinapatientphase for listening to me rant about this fic constantly, and to the amazing race for giving me a deadline. #burnieandashley.  
> this timeline is barely close to accurate.

Working in a 24-hour diner, Olivia got to see some things.

Elderly women who come in at five in the morning to drink bitter coffee and read the newspaper for two and a half hours before leaving with a ninety-six cent tip on the table; deadbeats that order water and tea only to pour half a paper-bagged bottle into the glass; rich kids who smoke weed and order everything off the menu to fill up, but still tip like you’d expect an entitled teenager to. And ever since the Patriots established their camp further down the road, the booths have been filled with soldiers and whatever girls want to support the cause that night. Lucky for them, the owner is a sympathizer and throws in free coffee and half-priced food for all that they do.

One man, however, she swears is an omelet or two away from owning part of the company.  At least four nights a week, he’s here, a new girl (or guy, every once in awhile) across from the table from him as he looks at them with a seemingly sincere gaze. The kindest Olivia’s ever seen, but of course, how genuine could it be if he’s just to replace them in his bed the next night?

More often than not, he’s in her section. After the first couple of weeks, she gives him a knowing smile, and he returns it sheepishly, like he’s granting her a courtesy. She considers that he doesn’t want his date knowing exactly how often he eats here. He always orders the same thing: loaded omelet, water, and “the largest fucking cup of coffee you have”--even though he’s well-aware that they really only have the one size of coffee.

On her last graveyard shift of the week, she comes into the diner to find the rest of the staff in a commotion. A cook yanks her into the kitchen and they peer out into the restaurant around the corner. “Your dude Alex is here.”

Olivia blinks back at them. “Okay? He’s here every night.”

“But look who he’s here _with_.”

Olivia steps out further to see his table. She follows his tried and true doe-eyed stare across the table to a girl with a perfectly loose braid and dark eyes. Olivia furrows her brow. She’s definitely seen that girl. “Oh my god!” she yells, turning a few heads in the diner, but not Alex’s nor the girl’s, thankfully. She whips her head around to stare at everyone in the kitchen, another waitress snickering at her aghast face. “She was here last night!”

She looks back again. He brought this girl here the night before. Olivia went through the usual motions with his pursuits, politely acting, for the both of theirs sake, like he didn’t eat here five nights a week. At the very least, she seemed nicer than some of the other guests he brought in. Please and thank you with every order, too generous of tip for Alex alone to be paying (he’s nice, but the army has no money), and a quiet smile.

A few of the other waitresses that knew Alex gathered around her to join in her analysis of this mystery girl so privileged to be here two nights in a row. “She’s really pretty,” one of them points out. That she is. Her pink cheeks match the light color of her lips as she sits bundled up in a coat and scarf that looks to cost twice Olivia’s paycheck. She has cleanly manicured hands, adorned in little rings, wrapped around her coffee mug as she listens to Alex talk with glittering eyes. Olivia’s heart sighs at the sight of this girl, who truly looks to be made of sugar, spice, and everything nice. What the hell is she doing with a poor soldier who nearly lives at a diner?

Another waitress already took their table, so Olivia lingers at the counter, watching the couple whenever she has a free moment. Alex is talking so much, too much, trying to impress her. The girl smiles fondly and nods, clearly no clue what he is yammering on about, but in her own way, trying to impress him too.

She wonders if, hopes that, this girl will be back again.

 

\-----

 

They come back the next night. And the next. And the next. And the next. Rinse and repeat for the next six months.

These nights are less adorable than the first. The girl with the cute braid and the put together outfit quickly transforms into the girl with a sloppy topknot in a well-worn sweatshirt that clearly belongs to Alex. The giddiness hangs around, however, though it’s less because of the new relationship pressure, and more due to the post-orgasm bliss. They’re too obvious, Olivia thinks. His hair in a worse state than usual, the lipstick stain on his chin, her smudged eyeliner. The way his thumb circles her palm and he stares at her with a knowing, loving gaze. This one isn’t so practiced. The diner, evidently, becomes their post-coital cigarette.

And they give absolutely no care to hide it.

The girl--Eliza, her name is, as she finally learns from scanning her eyes over a text Alex sent ( _With Eliza. Tell John I’ll call him tomorrow_ )--seems to have a horrible habit of simply forgetting articles of clothing. The first time she comes into the diner missing a bra, she misguidedly wears a nearly see-through white t-shirt, the outline of her breasts clear and her nipples perked up from the cold. Olivia has to swat away every cook and busboy who comes out to gawk. Alex has no complaints, she’s sure. He spends that night with his face nuzzled into her shoulder and arms around her waist, whispering something out of hearing range. By the shade of red on Eliza’s cheeks, either something profoundly sweet or too dirty to be said so cavalierly in public.

After that night, Olivia starts to think she’s doing it on purpose. Despite the New York crisp air, she wears a skirt with no stockings. It drives him absolutely mad. Alex corners her in their booth, pressing a kiss to her cheek and whispering something in her ear. She laughs softly, like the smallest bell, and his hand finds her knee. He brushes his thumb against the inside of her leg. Slowly, teasingly, he rubs his hand up and down her thigh, continuing to speak softly to her. His hand stops when it reaches the top of her leg, fully disguised by her skirt. Eliza’s mouth falls open slightly and she rests her head on his. Olivia looks away. Seriously? Here? Now? What about the fluorescent lighting and the stale coffee turns them on so much that he feels the need to fuck her with his fingers right then?

When she thinks they’re done, she runs by to refill their coffee quickly so she can return back to the kitchen to hide. To her dismay, she arrives just in time to hear the sound of Eliza’s legs clenching around Alex’s hand. Olivia is so startled by the sound, she knocks over one of their mugs, dumping coffee onto Eliza’s lap (Alex’s hand included). She yelps; he curses. Olivia apologizes profusely, and both of them swear it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, before grabbing napkins and waving her off. She worries momentarily about her tip--they still leave her twenty percent--then only hopes that it teaches them something about trying to fuck in her diner.

(It does. They make a point to sit on opposite sides of the booth for the next two weeks.)

The whiteboard above the coffee maker in the kitchen always reads “PUBLIC INDECENCY COUNT” with their subcategories: hand-holding, kisses, shared drinks, sitting on the same side of the booth, and, one special category for that night, hands under skirts. A large “1” circled many times over sits under the last category. Nearly every night, someone, usually Olivia, begrudgingly increases the number underneath every other category. Every time she does it with a sigh, and another waitress teases her: “how rude of them to be in love, Livvie.”

She rolls her eyes, peering out into the diner to see him lean over the table to press a kiss to the side of her mouth. Olivia erases a “71” with the side of her fist and replaces it with a “72.”

How rude of them, indeed.

 

\-----

 

For however uncomfortable seeing them sickeningly in love or a zipper away from fucking on the table made Olivia, nothing prepared her for seeing them in the midst of an argument. She has way too many intimate details of their relationship at this point, she doesn’t need to know any more.

From the time they entered, something was pissing the both of them off. She took their orders, delivered to her with short sentences and tight, forced smiles.

When she passes by their table to take another’s order, she can’t help but overhear the middle of their intense, albeit stupid, argument.

“You’re so patronizing!” she snaps, her voice still hanging low as not to draw attention.

“How am I patronizing? I’m just asking that you take thirty seconds out of your day to text me. If I can find the time to write you those letters in a day, you can send me a text.”

Olivia almost laughs out loud in front of her other table. They’re at each other’s throats over a text message? Or lack thereof?

“What? Because your time is so much more valuable than mine, that I should be honored you take the time to write me a letter?”

He shrugs at her theatrically, eyes wide and shouting: _Obviously._ Olivia wonders if he really doesn’t know that he’s an idiot.

“Alexander,” Eliza starts. Her voice has lost some of its volume, but she is clearly no less angry. “You’re not the only one in the whole fucking colony that’s busy!”

He starts to talk again, building up to what she’s sure would be a long rebuttal, but Eliza raises a hand to stop him. She stands up from the table, digging some money out of her purse and dropping it on the surface. Any hints of smugness or anger have fallen from his face.

“I’m going home. I’ll call you tomorrow, sometime in my _light schedule_. Hope you can make the time to answer,” she tells him, wrapping herself up in her coat.

Alex chases after her wrist with his hand, switching from indignant to pleading at the speed of a high-end sports car. “Betsy,” he appeals. She pulls her arm away.

“I said I’ll call you tomorrow,” she insists. The bell on the door rings briefly before it slams behind her.

Olivia stops by his table as he slumps down and fills his cup with coffee. “She’ll call,” she assures him. He looks up at her confused, like he’s actually surprised she heard the conversation when she was standing five feet away the whole time. “Just stop being a dick to her.”

“I wasn’t, I just don’t understand why she won’t--”

“You know you’re not the center of her life, right?” she asks, raising her eyebrows and setting her coffee pot on the table. “She probably has other stuff going on.” She shrugs, picks up, and moves on. He sits there unmoving for a minute, then pays.

The next night he comes in alone and sits at the counter top. Just as when he first brought Eliza for her second night at the diner, the staff is dumbfounded. _Where is she_? Olivia expects him to wait for her to show up and join him at his side, but he still orders. She stares him down as he eats his food, like a mother staring at her child for eating before saying grace. She’s pretty sure he knows what she wants to ask, but neither of them say anything.

Olivia lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding in when Eliza walks in the door, eyes red and searching for Alex. He turns his head slightly at the sound of the door, then looks back again when he sees Eliza. He is, apparently, as surprised as Olivia is relieved. Nearly falling off his chair, he rushes up to her and pulls her over to a table where they can talk. Olivia not-so-subtly moves down so she can hear inklings of their conversation.

“Is this about what I said last night? I’m sorry, okay, I know you’re busy. I’m not the center of your life.” Olivia smirks to herself.

“No,” she tells him, voice shaking. “I did mean to call you today, too, but then Peggy called and she’s…”

“She’s what?”

“She’s sick, Alexander.”

Alex moves to her side and envelops her in his arms fully; she lets him, burying her face in his chest.

Olivia backs away, it’s too intimate. She keeps an eye on them, though blinds herself to the whiteboard in the kitchen, as they stay like that for the rest of the right, mostly silent. Her heart aches for the both of them.

 

\-----

 

It’s a week before she sees them again, and for the last time. She’s near the end of her shift, four in the morning about to roll into five, and they stumble in the door, letting in the wind. They look positively debauched. Both of their lips are swollen still, his hair out of its usual ponytail, a bite mark on her neck, for Christ’s sake. Ah, just like old times. She would hope Eliza conveniently forgot to wear a bra to be true to form, but she’s wearing his tattered jacket, unrevealing.

They settle into each other on the same side of the table, her head fitting comfortably on his shoulder, his hand on her waist. Olivia makes a mental note to change the whiteboard (sixty-three times now) and greets them with more pep than usual. To her surprise, they toss their usual orders out the window and order too many stacks of pancakes to be healthy or even legal.

She raises her eyebrows, putting their ravaged appearances and tall order together. “Busy night?” she asks. Or going in for round two. They’d need the carbs.

Eliza blushes, cheeks bright red like Olivia hasn’t been aware they have sex before almost every time they come in here this whole time. She brings her hand up to her mouth to cover her laugh, and that’s when Olivia sees it. Her rock. Well, it’s more like a large pebble. Alex was still in the military, after all.

“Oh my gosh!” Olivia’s face brightens and Alex and Eliza both follow her eyes to the ring. They smile at each other, and he presses a kiss to the side of her head (113 becomes 114, Olivia reminds herself).

“Last night.” Alex answers the unasked question, proud. “Hence the… everything.” Their look, the pancakes, the near-sickening public displays of affection.

Olivia congratulates them again, then shares the news. The food’s on the house.

Alex and Eliza don’t come in after that. Olivia reads in the paper that the Patriots are heading down south, towards Virginia. They erase the whiteboard. One of the cooks tells her the war is coming to an end. She cuts down her hours, goes back to college. A few months later, page six catches her eye, proclaiming _Elizabeth Schuyler, daughter of Philip Schuyler, Weds Col. Alexander Hamilton In New York Home_. The names are vaguely familiar, but she knows that picture.

They’re cutting their wedding cake. Her veil is long and her dress too conservative for the girl that Olivia knew in the diner. Alex is behind her, his hand atop hers on the knife, just above the top tier of their cake. He has that dopey, gushing look on his face that she saw with every girl he brought into the diner, but none moreso than Eliza. Eliza’s looking back at him, returning a secret, barely contained smile. They’re no different than that last night she saw them.

Her heart swells. She takes one last look at the couple she used to know. Carefully, Olivia folds up the paper and tosses it gingerly in the trash.


End file.
